


(and this is how we break--)

by ThatPawnbrokersShopAroundTheCorner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatPawnbrokersShopAroundTheCorner/pseuds/ThatPawnbrokersShopAroundTheCorner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock wishes he weren’t so good at deduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(and this is how we break--)

***

There is a list of things Sherlock never imagined happening in his life. The first incident of that occurring when he finds out that knowing a bit about the solar system _(unimportant, redundant gibberish he picked up at school —)_ is helpful, after all. But those are exceptions, he tells himself and John just shakes his head and calls him an ‘impossibly irritating sod’ with a silly smile on his face (the smile saying that he isn’t all that annoyed after all).

But the funny thing about life is that it’s not a governable universe, that it's not a vacuum that either yields right or wrong results, but is a topsy-turvy muddle of grey ‘what ifs’ and annoying illogical bits and pieces that don’t fit together into a greater whole. Sherlock usually ignores them, is a champion at it, until one foggy September evening when John doesn’t come back home on time. 

But Sherlock just keeps waiting because he knows John will come home. He _must_. So he starts playing the violin, trying not to think (too much) about why John is late. He decides that it's another fight with a vending machine. Yes, it must be that, nothing else, nothing more serious -

(In the end, it just takes one piece of the puzzle to fall out, in order for everything to collapse.)

At some point, Sherlock stops playing the violin, tucks it away, and throws himself onto the couch, wearing that bathrobe of his that John thinks needs to get washed because it’s starting to get ‘smelly’. But Sherlock doesn’t care. John’s not here, though he should be. He doesn’t have a date tonight, and they’ve run out of milk. He needs the milk for a new batch of experiments he’s been itching to try out. 

(Sherlock would never admit to himself that he misses John’s company.)

At some point, Sherlock dozes off, and is only awakened by the sound of someone silently, yet noticeably walking up the staircase. It’s John: he usually walks like a soldier, marching up the stairs in a regular trit-trot-trot motion, not flying up the stairs with a spring in her steps like Mrs Hudson, even though she has a bad hip – but regularly, mechanically as if missing one step even would bring his perfectly balanced universe to spiral out of control —

But he sounds different now, practically dragging himself up the steps, even worse than when it’s raining outside or he still relied on his cane. Sherlock sits up, the words ‘are you hurt’ on his lips. Not that he’d ever utter them. That’s sentiment, and Sherlock Holmes doesn’t indulge in feeling. 

And yet — when he sees John’s pale, tired face, notices how he nearly jumps when he switches the light on and notices him — something that isn’t irritation, isn’t glee over a new case showing up, or one of his sulky spells -- takes over Sherlock. No, it’s just pure concern that makes him walk over to John, place a hand on his arm, and – for a second – wish he weren’t as good at observations and deductions as he is –

Because, at that moment, his entire world – as he knows it – comes undone. 

John’s lips are swollen _(not from kisses, no there’s blood on his bottom lip, missing tissue, implying fear, implying anxiety —)_ , there are, Sherlock notices as he looks down at his hands, marks _(deeply embedded into his skin, from a handcuff, not done willingly because the marks are red, very red which implies struggle —)_ , and … what’s worse is that John’s face is entirely devoid of emotion, but calm, deadly calm, and his eyes – his eyes —

Are tired. Resigned. 

And the funny, the sad thing is that it’s the look on John’s face that sends the bile rising to his throat. Of course, the marks, the torn underlip, and the way he’d laboriously walked up the stairs were hints enough, but Sherlock knows John. He knows that John wouldn’t look this serious if something bad hadn’t happened.

(John usually smiles, even in the face of death; John is a grown up man who dresses in jumpers and prepares himself for Christmas months before the actual event even with a dangerous dominatrix on the loose; John is kind, John is patient, John is –

John would take it like a real soldier, not utter a word even if it hurt. John would endure everything if done for the right purposes. 

John, Sherlock knows, would do anything for him. 

Even sacrifice his pride, his honour. 

Everything. 

Mycroft was right: John does get loyal very quickly, but not easily. He was wrong about that. 

John doesn’t point a gun at people for just anyone. 

He doesn’t allow himself to be raped for just anyone.

Sherlock knows he’s lucky to have won John Watson’s trust, friendship and faith. )

“John,” Sherlock says, and pulls him into a hug, not caring if John flinches or tries to push him away. Because he knows John needs it. 

Indeed, John does lean into the touch: cautious but not pulling away –

And Sherlock simply holds him, his touch careful, loose, but still there. He needs John to know that he’s there , that he’ll always try to be. 

In the back of his mind, as he hears John’s suppressed, but still there sobs, feels him tremble ever so slightly, and the quiet, and nearly composed ‘you can let go, I’m fine, Sherlock – I’m fine’ Sherlock swears to himself that he’ll hunt that man down, and watch him dance. 

_(Watch him dance, till he burns.)_


End file.
